Portrait of a Man
by Rice-Ball247
Summary: At birth, we are tabula rasa - the clean slate. Our stories are written throughout our lives, sometimes terrible, sometimes great. Concept story based on the Seven Deadly Sins. Oneshot. Slash (DM/HP). AU, OC, character death (read the warnings, please).


**Portrait of a Man**_**  
**_by Rice-Ball247

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Harry Potter or any affiliated characters. They are the work of J.K. Rowling and I make no profit.

**Warning: **slash (man x man), OC, AU (no magic), religious themes, suicide, character death - not my usual cup of tea (you'll see why)

**PLEASE read the warning above before continuing and keep it in mind while reading (if you choose to read to the end). I will post a brief explanation at the end of this fanfic which addresses the concept of this story.**

* * *

_**Innocence.**_

Blessed silence.

They had finally stopped arguing. He didn't understand. He couldn't understand. He was too young (too young, inexperienced, naïve) to be in the 'big boy' world. Sitting on the staircase, face between the rails, hands clinging to cool metal, he watched (and observed, absorbed, memorized).

The faces of his distraught mother and outraged father, vividly imprinted on his mind. They stood their ground, polar opposites separated by two black-leather couches and a lacquered coffee table in between. His heart was hammering in his chest as he waited. And waited. They said nothing. For so long, the silence felt unbearable, the tension was thick.

He couldn't remember a time when it had been like this. As far as he knew, his family was nice, loving, caring. Mummy and Daddy loved each other, _always_ loved each other.

… _Right?_

He drew in on himself, trying to make himself as small as possible so that the two adults facing off in the living room would not notice his quiet presence. He continued to watch them – like a cat, like a hawk – taking in every detail, missing nothing.

_Mum doesn't look too happy… Daddy looks angry. I wonder what they're fighting about?_

He wished that the railings he clutched to so desperately would disappear. He wished he was old enough to understand. He knew something was _wrong_. It was unsettling, being in the dark. Then, Mum happened to glance up and her jaw went slack (surprise? expectation?).

"_Love_," her warning tone cut through the silence, addressed towards her silently fuming husband. She steeled her jaw, one irritated glance at her husband before her expression softened somewhat and she took on her gentle, mothering persona.

She beckoned her son to her arms, into which he rushed, burying his head against her shoulder. That familiar and comforting smell of pines and lavender would always calm him, assured him that everything would be okay, that everything would be fine.

Then again, when you were seven, Mum _always_ made things better.

* * *

_**Gula.**_

"Mummy, mum, mum! Look, can I have one of those, please?"

Draco watched with disinterested eyes as the plump child shrieked, clutching onto the folds of his mother's floral skirts (chocolate stained, chubby fingers, _stains, stains, stains!_). The woman's attention was instantly diverted from scrutinizing the waxy, green apples to attending to her son.

_Spoilt brat_.

The child was soon satiated, an ice-cool fruity pop wedged between his salivating, orange lips. Draco could feel a single drop of sweat trickle between the damp valley of his shoulder blades, hyperaware of the heat beating down on his back and the frozen confectionary just a three-dollar purchase away.

His mother must have caught his longing glance because almost immediately, her sharp '_no_.' cut through his thoughts. The '_but mum_' died upon his parched tongue and slid back down his equally dry throat.

Draco observed his mother silently. The thin, orange cotton stretched over her distended belly, her hand occasionally caressing the top of the gentle swell. A bead of sweat collected at her damp temple, her hair clipped away from her flushed face. Against the unrelenting sun, her eyes narrowed, eyebrows marred together.

_Pregnancy is scary._

"Mummy, can we have Mac 'n' Cheese for dinner? I want extra cheese on mine," the child was babbling again, _pawing_ at his mother with sticky hands. She looked hesitant for a moment before relenting. Draco rolled his eyes in derision. His mother would _never_ allow that type of junk to be consumed in their household. He often prided himself on the fact that, unlike other eight year olds his age, he wasn't the slightest bit overweight or unhealthy. Regardless, he sometimes wondered what it would be like to be spoiled like that child. Mum was always going on about 'this bargain' and 'that sale', spitting obscenities under her breath when she thought something was 'ridiculously expensive' or cooing when something was 'a good buy'. To Draco, the mechanics of the adult world was something he had no interest in, so he didn't see the problem his mother had with sparing him a few coins. Besides, whenever _she_ wanted something for herself, she'd get it without hesitation, something that would quench her immediate needs.

Draco felt the heat prickle in his back yet again. Perhaps he could convince his mother that a bottle of cold lemonade would be an excellent idea. He watched as she ambled over to the nearest butcher selling various meats at reasonably inexpensive prices. Draco frowned as he momentarily debated whether or not to enter the store. On the one hand, it was much cooler in there than outside. On the other, the smell of raw meat had a tendency to overturn his stomach on every occasion.

Despite the store being a cool reprieve from the intense heat, he chose to stay outside. Draco pressed his cheek against the window, a sigh of relief fogging the glass. He watched as his mother bargained with the man, her mouth moving rapidly in succession as his face reddened. If there was one thing Mum was good at, it was bargaining. She walked out a few moments later, stretching slightly and then fixing her shirt where it had ridden up to her navel.

"Hold this for mummy, Draco," she said offhandedly, palming off the burden to her son as she waddled towards the general direction of their car.

"Mum, can I please have a bottle of lemonade?" he asked politely, trying to heft the bag of meat along with his small hands. She ignored his request for a moment as she scanned the car park with pursed lips. "Mummy?"

"Quiet, Draco."

"But Mum, it's really hot and I'm really thirsty!" he attempted to argue with her, in hopes that it would get him at least a little relief from the stifling heat. She didn't even look at him.

"Draco, I don't have enough money for lemonade. It's really expensive here. Daddy will get you a bottle later," she snapped hastily as she plodded onwards.

"I won't be thirsty later," he informed her petulantly, dropping the bag at his feet and crossing his arms over his chest with a huff.

_Hey, if it works for that brat…_

Upon hearing the bags drop, his mother turned around as fast as her swollen belly allowed her. "Draco Lucius Malfoy, _you are grounded_."

Draco's mouth dropped open in a scandalised oval. Why was she being so unreasonable? He considered it the right occasion – it was absurdly hot, sweltering even, and he was a minute away from coughing up a dry throat. What was the harm in a little drink, or something to cool him down?

But he knew he couldn't talk back. In front of everyone, mum would smile kindly and politely tell Draco (warning, warning, warning) that he was being rude. Later, he would get the belt. And to her, it was fair. It meant love (burning, painful welts across his backside). She loved him. That's what mothers did.

And when you're seven (and a half), of course you'd believe mummy. Of course.

* * *

_**Invidia.**_

When Abraxas was born, the world ended. At least, that's what Draco often told himself. He watched as Mother embraced her precious cargo, a newborn gift wrapped in a soft, blue blanket. The past week had been hell and a half. Aunts, uncles, family and friends whom he either recognised or didn't know had flitted in and out of their front door incessantly.

It felt strange, unsettling, now that he was no longer the centre of attention, but rather, this… this… _thing_ (toy? it _had_ to be, nobody that small could be human!). He peered up at the gurgling bundle with curiosity. What could possibly be so fascinating about _that_? All it did was sleep and cry, and eat and whine, and released the foulest smell he'd ever experienced in his eight years of existence. How could something so small smell so bad? (and get so much attention?)

Therefore, Draco had come to the conclusion that his "new baby brother" was something he would not enjoy. In fact, he was convinced it was something that he would grow to loathe more than he did already. He was infuriated when his favourite aunt and uncle had stopped by for a visit. Instead of preening under the usual bout of hugs and kisses (and if he were especially lucky, some sweets from his aunt's store), the couple completely forwent their nephew and directed the happy greeting to The Baby.

The arrival of Abraxas had sent everyone into a tizzy. There was so much movement and all the other kids crowded around his mother, instead of playing with him. So he did the only think he could think of:

Draco sulked. His demeanour in general was beginning to sour rapidly, like milk left in the open. When Dad attempted to bribe him with some chocolate, Draco slapped the offer away. He watched as a vein popped in his father's temple and colour flooded his cheeks.

It got him grounded. Draco sulked even more.

It turned out that Draco _had_ gotten a present from his aunt and uncle. A soft, plushy stuffed snake. It was green and warm and made him happy when he cuddled it. When The Baby stretched out his chubby arms and grasped onto the tail, Draco shrieked.

"Don't touch! It's mine!"

Hearing the high-pitch shout and the tone directed at him, Abraxas' face contorted into the tell-tale sign of crying. Moments later, the loud, continuous wail had attracted every occupant of the house within seconds.

"Draco! What did you do?" Mother admonished, brandishing a wooden spoon she had been using to bake those cookies (soft and warm, they melted on your tongue) that Draco loved. Mother only made it when there were other children around though. Draco wasn't permitted to have them otherwise.

"It wanted my toy," he muttered petulantly, hugging the plushy snake to his chest and glaring a mutinous challenge at The Baby, then Mother.

"_He_ wanted to borrow it, Draco. Share with him. He's only a _baby_."

"NO!"

"Draco, _sweetie_, please share. with. your. brother," Mother bit out each word carefully, and there it was again, that warning tone that promised welts of love later. But he wouldn't give up, give in. Not _yet_, not now. The snake was _his_, not The Baby's. The Baby had taken away everything from him. His mother, father, favourite aunts and uncles, and now, with a bitter stare as his mother took the plushy away, his new toy.

The Baby cooed, accepting the soft toy and using gums to gnaw on the green, furry tail. Draco sneered at it, then turned and stormed off. If he didn't get lots of cookies, then The Baby wouldn't get any either. It wasn't fair. Never fair.

* * *

_**Acedia.**_

"_Growing up, he had been nothing but perfectly ordinary. Average grades and average looks made nothing extraordinary of the boy. Chained to the picturesque image of a loving, Catholic family, he was suffocating. _

_One more day alive meant one more day of existence. This was not how he wanted his life to turn out. There had to be more._

_Throughout his high-school career, he flirted with the notion of being famous (a somebody, because nobody wanted a 'nobody'), of being someone important, of being _**someone**_._

_He took up music, but failed spectacularly. _

_He took up sport – yet another failure._

_He attempted his hand at painting. However his foray into art had left much to be desired_."

And so, Draco was tired. Sick and bloody tired. He didn't want to try anymore. Upon further reflection, he'd been _trying_ for so long (ten years _was_ a long time). Ever since the birth of Abraxas when he was eight, Draco felt as if he'd just been _attempting_ _everything_ and succeeding at _nothing_.

Why did teenagers bother trying to fit in at all? It was _exhausting_ and he felt as if he was a seventy-year-old man inhabiting a seventeen-year-old body. Then, he took up writing. He had never really _felt_ as if writing were a talent. He considered it to be more like a skill that one acquired as one aged.

He tried it and he was brilliant. He had finally found the 'vocation' that his careers advisor was always harping on about. He would grow up to become a world famous author, like J.K. Rowling, and make billions of dollars, just like that. His parents were finally proud of him for something he was gifted at.

They often bragged to their family friends, and friends of family friends, that Draco was 'publishing a book soon', or that 'thousands of fans were currently reading his works'. In reality, Draco was doing an assignment for English Literature class, and the 'thousands of fans' who read his work actually consisted of his teacher and the small circle of friends he had at school. And Abraxas, whenever it was appropriate.

Draco also never considered how unstable this career pathway would be. He planned to work into the wee hours of the morning, cursing himself for procrastinating. So much so, that at the rate he was going, he would be left to write the majority of his work within the span of a few hours. He couldn't afford any distractions-

"Draco, rosary time!"

His head hit the keyboard with an exasperated sigh. He _shouldn't_ have allowed the very notion into his head. Something about the laws of attraction and mental prowess, and how thinking about something got you somewhere.

"Well think _this_," he muttered under his breath as he ignored his mother's call and continued typing.

A knock on the door. "Draco, mum wants you downstairs now."

"Abby, go away."

"Drake."

"Abby, bugger off."

"Dray, Dray, Dray, Dray, Drac-"

"I said _piss off, Abby__!_" Draco snapped, swirling around in his computer chair to chuck an eraser at his _stupid_ nine-year-old brother. The boy squeaked and ran down stairs, squealing, "Mum, Mum! Draco swore at me! He said the P-Word! And the B-Word! And the Eff-Word!"

"That's a lie and you _know it_, you nasty, fibbing, recalcitrant brat!" Draco snarled as he stomped downstairs, throwing himself onto the couch with a disgruntled expression on his face. "And I'm _busy_ right now, can't you all see that? If God will exist forever, I'm sure He can wait one night. My assignment _can't_."

"_Draco Lucius!_ How **dare** you!" his mother thundered, pointing a stern finger at his face. "It was God who gifted you with such talents. You should _thank_ Him for it!"

"Oh shove off! I'm sick to death of doing this! No normal, _sane_ teenager my age would even _think_ of doing this!" Draco shot back, standing so that he towered over his mother. At least this way, he wouldn't feel so small and gained somewhat of an advantage over her.

Unfortunately, his father was his equal in terms of stature. "Draco, don't take that tone with your mother."

"You're all just against me, aren't you?! You all want to pull me away from my work, so that I'll fail school and then fail university! And then I'll fail at life and die on the streets from poverty! You know what? I think I'll just go off myself now, since I'm going to end up that way, anyway. None of you understand me and none of you _care_!"

"Oh stop the teenage angst, for Christ's sake, Draco. It gets old, really, it does," Dad exhaled heavily, throwing up his hands with disgust.

"Love, don't use His name like that!" Mum scolded him, before turning on her son. "You really feel that way? Like we don't understand you? We've _been_ through all that before, Draco. We don't need to relive it again. Stop trying to drown everyone else in your own angst."

"It's not _angst_, mum, it's called _apathy and melancholy_," Draco gritted out, accepting the rosary beads that were being pushed into his hand without even realising it.

"In other words, angst," his mother replied offhandedly, as she lit a few candles around their mini-altar.

"You know what, I give up! You obviously hate me. Other parents care about what happens to their kids but you guys wouldn't give a shit about what happens to me. This is my career we're talking about. If you're willing to impede that, then I give up writing. I'm not doing this stupid assignment. I'll drop out of school and become a society leech," he sneered, throwing the plastic beads at his younger sibling ("Ow! Hey!") before storming upstairs to his bedroom and locking the door behind him.

Draco had tried to fit in with the depressed, antisocial group at school at one point, but the thought of physically maiming himself had made him ill. He decided he'd go on a hunger strike and refuse to leave his room for the next week. He sighed.

_I should have taken up drama instead_.

What was the point? Of school, of life? What was the point? Why had his parents cursed him on this stupid (polluted, corrupt) earth to _live_ when he would _die_ at the end of it all? What was the point? _That_ was his question.

* * *

_**Avaritia.**_

It seemed like forever ago when Draco had donned his school blazer for the last time and accepted his high school certificate from his principal. On that day, if he could recall correctly, the graduation motto was that 'life periodically splits into various paths, each being a potentially fruitful avenue of exploration'. The motto had become something in which he lived his career by.

It was with determination when Draco stepped into the threshold of The Office, where The Boss was seated behind a large mahogany desk, perusing an official document with something akin to disdain in his expression. He set the document down with an air of resignation and beckoned for Draco to take a seat.

"Draco, m'boy, come in, come in. Have a seat, please." Draco wisely obeyed. The Boss had been looking wearier as the weeks progressed, and judging from the plummet in the company's finances, he could tell it was very much business-related. "Tea?" The offer was politely declined.

The Boss was silent for a full minute and Draco found himself unable to speak up. The dread of dismissal he felt in his stomach was equally weighed out by the anticipation of a promotion. He _knew_ he was a huge asset to the company's marketing department. Yet, they were going through a time of hardship and, upon reevaluation, quite a few workers had been fired. Perhaps being one of the 'higher ups' meant that he was entitled to a 'special dismissal'. Draco humoured the thought for a moment before returning to the situation at hand.

"Sir?" he asked tentatively, as if approaching a frightened child. He was amazed by the 180-shift in expression on the other man's face.

"Draco, I'm sure you're very aware that the company's been going through a bit of a rough patch recently. We've had to let go of a few workers…" he trailed off absently, glancing down at the sheaf of papers upon his desk. Draco's face remained impassive, but his hands gripped the armrests of the chair he was now perched upon, knuckles white. He mentally braced himself for The Talk.

_Shit. Damn. This is it. This is it. I'm going to be—_

"Promoted."

The plummeting sensation he had felt momentarily was suddenly replaced by a feeling of absolute elation. "What?" he blurted out ineloquently. His train of thought had completely sidelined his concentration on the conversation he was currently having.

"I said, 'I've decided that you're to be promoted'," The Boss reiterated without any hint of his usual smile. Despite his feeling of great happiness, Draco could feel something holding them back from signing his new contract. It began with a 'But' and was aptly named The Catch.

Draco voiced his concern and was met with a document. The same official-looking document he had seen The Boss reading over earlier on.

"_But_ I have one condition. We, at this company, consider ourselves to be very _family_ _-oriented_. It is essential that you, as future executive personnel, consider marriage."

Draco stood. "Sir, you cannot-"

"Then I will not."

"But-"

"_Draco_," The Boss stressed his name with much impatience. "I admit, you have been one of the finest employees I have ever seen walk through the door of this company in all my years of being the C.E.O. However, be rest assured that I have no qualms about letting you go if you refuse this. You must set an example for your future subordinates, in order to uphold the reputation of our company."

"And this is how you set an example? Blackmail? Bargaining? This is preposterous," Draco erupted, pacing in the space between the mahogany desk and his own chair.

"It's a business deal. Your promotion is on the line," came the terse reply. Draco recognised the no-nonsense tone immediately. It was the same voice in which The Boss spoke to other business leaders and clients. "Besides, you haven't even considered the position I am willing to bequeath onto you. Should you choose to accept, that is," he drawled, his tone now airy.

Draco stopped pacing and his eyes were automatically drawn to the document which outlined the terms and conditions of their agreement. His eyes bulged almost comically.

"Vice-president?!"

"After much contemplation, I had decided that if I were to ensure your cooperation in this matter, I would have to compensate you quite generously," Draco became acutely aware of the fact that The Boss was now smiling. The older man knew, from the start, that Draco would be unable to resist agreeing when the rewards were so appealing.

"Very well. I accept," Draco stated with conviction. The older man smiled widely, "Excellent. I hope you consider my recommendation _thoroughly_," then buzzed his secretary. "Davis, do call Astoria immediately and tell her to get ready, please."

"You bloody bastard! Promoted to vice-president?! That's unheard of! What the hell did you do to get the old codger to agree?"

Draco gave his workmate a tight-lipped smile, "I played it smart, Blaise. Something which you should give serious consideration to, if you're thinking of progressing in this type of career pathway." His words were bitter.

His former desk-mate saluted him mockingly with an 'aye aye mon capitáne' (combined with an appalling faux-accent) and bid him goodbye. Draco took the next elevator ride down to the foyer, mentally preparing himself for the dinner meeting with The Boss' daughter tonight. When he had arrived at the bottom floor, he stepped out, straightening his 'lucky' yellow tie simultaneously.

"Wait! Hold the elevator, please!" came a breathless voice. Draco glanced up and was met with a frazzled, younger looking man whose chaotic hairstyle did not do his impeccable appearance any justice. He was attempting to sprint to the elevators while balancing a large tray of coffee in one hand and a paper bag in the other. No doubt Blaise was picking on the new employees again. This one must have been Draco's replacement.

Feeling a small pang of sympathy for the new worker, Draco graciously held the door open for the few seconds in which the other man could dash in. Bright green eyes smiled cheerfully at him from behind stylish-looking glasses.

"Thanks, dude."

Draco raised a brow at the casual, winded utterance but did not comment as the doors closed in front of him. He clicked his tongue in annoyance when he realised that he was now running five minutes behind schedule.

He told himself that, no matter what happened, he would accept The Boss' daughter. As he had been told all those years ago in high school, opportunities such as this didn't rise very often. He would marry the girl and get the promotion he'd only been dreaming of. To him, it didn't matter _how_ he'd gotten there. Besides, it wasn't as if he was to love her.

This was a business transaction, pure and simple.

* * *

_**Luxuria.**_

Today, more than ever, he could feel the warm weight of the simple golden band that had bound his left index finger for a little over five years. Swallowing heavily, he gave it a gentle twist and then yanked the delicate hunk of metal from his hand, pocketing it without another glance. He wiped off the sweat from his palms onto the flanks of his trousers then rang the intercom.

The person on the other end didn't bother with a greeting, merely buzzing him in a few heartbeats later. He could feel his heart pounding in tandem with every changing thought that flitted through his mind (should I? shouldn't I?). As soon as he stepped through the threshold however, all thoughts vanished as his heart rate skyrocketed.

He climbed the stairs, each step burdened with trepidation, anxiety. The threadbare carpet underfoot muffled the sound of his feet carrying him upstairs. He paused on the landing, a second thought holding him back. Why had he agreed to this in the first place? A few coy glances and words traded in heated exchange… he cursed the flesh, his wretched body for giving into the mindless pleasure of lips that burned blazing, white hot trails of numbness. It was a welcome reprieve from his outside world, yet one that was not acceptable, a guilty pleasure that would tear his home, his wife, apart.

Without realising it, Draco had already reached the top floor. There, if anyone asked, was a door that was always open. The people that lived there would often comment on how warm and inviting the interior seemed; the sweet smell of something baking, cookies perhaps, always permeated throughout the building. It reminded him of a simpler time, a sweeter memory, of soft, decadent choc-chip cookies that melted on your tongue, fresh and warm from the oven. He knocked thrice, slowly, on the polished pine of the open door.

_How can __**anyone**__ be so trusting?_

The single, brief thought flooded him with guilt when he pictured his wife's smiling face. The thought and consequently, his guilt, drained away when someone appeared in the doorway. His eyes took in the tidy jeans and the soft, black turtleneck that wrapped around a lithe figure. Dark, brunet hair fell messily over rimmed glasses and bright green eyes. A patented, crooked smile. _Harry._

"Hey, you," Draco shivered when he felt a warm hand brush sensuously along the inside of his wrist, wrapping around to clasp his hand. "C'mon in." A gentle tug and Draco was completely compliant, following the shorter man inside, the door shutting behind them.

For a moment, Draco wondered how many times Harry closed that door.

Draco hated himself. For what he had done, the people it would affect. He hated it. Yet, he could not resist the temptation of those damnable eyes, that quirky, childlike grin and the infuriating way in which Harry's hair always, _always_ seemed to fall over his glasses. He hated himself for sounding so much like a lovesick fool, for always returning whenever the hunger struck (and it did, _often_). He wondered if he would follow Harry to the ends of the world and back. The thought that frightened him was that _yes,_ he probably would.

Their encounter had left him shaken. He was like a man possessed, unable to form any coherent thought. Except for the fact that he was warm (that heat which simmered gently) and then hot (as it boiled) and then blazing (as the heat engulfed him). It had never been like that with anyone else. He felt like he'd been deprived of warmth for so long in what felt like a frigid marriage and now he was burned.

At this moment, however, he needed to forget Harry and their sordid (passionate, unpredictable, uncontrollable) little 'love' affair. He tried to discard the potent taste that lingered on his tongue, ignore the itching, burning (oh how it ached) _need_ and absolute want to satiate the lustful creature that pawed at the pits of his stomach from the inside out.

He needed to forget Harry, because he had forgotten his anniversary with Astoria.

His beautiful wife, Astoria, who deserved no heartbreak, and who could do no wrong. Astoria, whom their mutual friends had coined as being his 'perfect match'. Astoria, who was pregnant with twin boys. Astoria, the victim of an unknown affair which was sure to break her.

She couldn't know. Draco was unable (unwilling) to inform her of the frequent visits he made to the quaint apartment a few blocks down the road from their dream home. A home that would be made complete with the arrival of two twin boys (Trenton and Weston) in a few months time. She couldn't know.

He wouldn't tell her. He needed to forget him for now…

"Draco?"

He closed his eyes as he felt warm arms enclose around his neck, sliding gently across his bare chest. _She couldn't find out._ A breathless sigh beside his ear and then a kiss pressed softly against his jawbone. _He wouldn't tell._

"You seem like you're lost in your own world, love," his wife rubbed his chest soothingly, cradling his body within the nest of her arms. His eyes opened. _Shit._ He'd been fantasising again! He shifted uncomfortably, away from her warmth, away from her hold, her touch. He didn't see the way she frowned, the way she wrapped her arms protectively around her distended belly in a subconscious manner.

"You've forgotten," she whispered accusingly, her words choking up. "I thought you were… damn it, Draco. I thought you had pretended to forget our _wedding anniversary_ so that… so that…"

It was obvious she was unable to continue. He closed his eyes, wishing he was elsewhere - perhaps in a warm apartment where the smell of baked goods, and pine and lavender, would remind him of a happier time. It was obvious he wasn't. He was here, with Astoria. His wife. His seven-months pregnant, beautiful, crying…

Damn it all!

He strode purposely towards his jacket and pulled it over his button-down shirt, still in a state of disarray. "Don't be silly. Of course I didn't forget, Astoria."

She raised a skeptical brow through her tears and blotchy cheeks. "Then what are you going to do about it?"

"I planned a surprise dinner for you. But obviously, you didn't want to wait for the surprise," he lied smoothly, already formulating and analysing how he was going to pull this one off without getting caught. Instantly, she brightened as if she'd never been crying in the first place.

"Where are we going?"

"Let me take care of that. Go have a bath, love," he winced internally as she bussed him on the cheek and flounced off to their en suite to prepare. He let out a heavily drawn sigh and began to pull a few strings. It was at times like these when he was grateful for his company position.

* * *

_**Ira.**_

It was one of those subjects that were never discussed, at least, not in the company of others. A taboo topic, which was veered off with warning (meaningful, heavy) glances. Draco preferred that the subject was never brought up at all, but people (as polite and well-intending as they may have seemed) always insisted on reopening barely healed wounds, of talking and discussing and healing, always wanting to help but never helping and -

_OHGOD_. He didn't want to speak another goddamned word about it. He told himself that he still had the rest of his life to live, that this wasn't the end of it.

Just because she had...

…_died._

Just because he cared.

She had found out. About Harry. About their affair. The one that spanned all of ten, glorious (heartbreaking, hair-raising) years. Ten years filled with suspicion and wondering, but for some reason, never questioning or confronting. Draco often wondered why, though. Astoria had always had a firm hold on their relationship, from what they ate for dinner, to the months which their children were born.

It didn't seem too bad at first. Their relationship had watered down significantly, curt at worst, cordial at best, sparse kisses in between. So when the 'Discussion' – as Draco liked to term it – began, it hadn't been explosive. Not what he had expected.

Draco would have preferred the explosion first.

Deadly calm (soft silence, gentle simmering) anger, he knew she was boiling once he had come clean, yet he felt dirty (so, so dirty) about it, and then…

She revealed all. From the moment she had hinted to her father about her 'fondness' for his favourite worker, to the night he had put the ring on her finger…

She had been under control the entire time. And he, foolishly, had been under _her _control.

He listened, horrified, as she gesticulated wildly, her waving hands counterpoint to her calm (heated, firm) voice as she unloaded everything she had kept quiet (bottled up) for so, _so_ long. He listened, horrified.

He could do nothing else. Her voice was rising, in pitch, in loudness, her fury mounting, and finally, finally, the explosion came. He didn't want to think of the acerbic words she had used, her caustic glare shredding him where he stood. All he could remember was that _helpless_ feeling, as if he stood at three-feet tall, rather than his six-two.

Draco shrunk back as she continued, unable to speak up because he knew that this time, it was his fault. He hadn't married her because he loved her, he admitted that. But he did care for her. There was no way he could have been completely heartless, remained totally apathetic towards her for _ten_ years. There was no way.

Nonetheless, he hadn't loved her, and to her, it wasn't enough. Caring was not enough.

They parted ways, thankful the kids were staying with Astoria's father for the weekend. He left the house, unable to stand seeing her face any longer. Harry would, perhaps, comfort him. He steeled his jaw and walked on, not knowing if she would be there when he returned. On the other hand, Astoria stayed at home. She buried her face in her hands and wept, not knowing if he would come back.

Draco wasn't aware of how long he'd been out of it. The argument with Astoria had taken its toll on him and he had drunken himself into a stupor. Harry had insisted on driving him home and so, stumbling into his house at close to two in the morning, arm around Harry's shoulders, they came across a most horrifying sight.

Lifeless, glassy eyes like a doll's;

Mouth slack and open as if gasping;

Swaying as if there was a breeze.

At the sight, Draco turned his head away and emptied the contents of his stomach onto the beige suede couch which… which Astoria had insisted on buying. He didn't hear the loud gasp of breath Harry had taken in, the only sound in the room was his retching.

"Come away, Draco. Come here," Harry urged him, ignoring the stench of alcohol and vomit, and the sweat that covered Draco's body from all the effort his body had exerted. "Come away, into my arms. Here."

Draco was trembling, body shaking as he tried to burn the sight away from his mind. One glance had traumatised the image into his memory. He couldn't believe… couldn't believe… no. No. She wouldn't have. Not Astoria. He had loved Harry. Cared for Astoria. Loved Harry. Not Astoria. But no… she wouldn't have committed…

_suicide_.

Not Astoria. Not Astoria.

* * *

_**Superbia.**_

"There isn't much time left."

He looked so fragile; merely a shadow of the former man, a strong man, that still burned a distant memory into the forefront of their minds. His thin chest rose gently and fell, his lungs gasping in sporadic bursts of air. It made a rasping, wheezy sound that rattled in their ears, as if he was struggling to breathe. Beside him, the cardiac monitor provided a clear, yet terrifying rhythm of his beating heart (beep, beep, beep). They couldn't focus on the bustle of doctors and nurses outside of the private ward. Instead, all surrounding sounds faded into the backdrop of unimportance.

"Did you call the chaplain?"

The children closed their eyes, a simultaneous flinch that spoke volumes of their weariness and frustration. _Yes_, they did call the chaplain, and he was due any minute. The priest was to arrive soon to give their father his final sacrament as a last rite before…

The door opened with a knock. Everyone tore their eyes away from the man on the hospital bed. A tall, thin man stepped through, cloaked in a black cassock over his white alb. He carried a small, black bag which hung from one shoulder as he closed the door behind him. It shut with a quiet click.

"Hullo," his voice was gentle and calm; almost immediately, it roused the same conflicting emotions in them all. Relief. Fear. Intermingled with the weighty worry that hovered over their heads. While the adults greeted him almost immediately, the children were hesitant. If their father received this final sacrament, it meant that he was finally free to go. He would leave them.

_Still__._

It was hard to let go.

A small table was set up in preparation for the final sacrament, laden with holy water, a set of rosary beads and a little black book. The chaplain finished setting up the table and turned to the small gathering with a gentle, yet meaningful smile.

"Usually it is in the best wishes of the anointed that only family members are present. May I ask that only the witnesses and family remain in the room?" he asked kindly, in that same sympathetic tone that doctors used when they had 'bad news'. Within moments, the majority of the small gathering had shuffled quietly out of the private ward. Now, only close relatives remained.

They began with the Sign of the Cross, a blessing of the Anointing Oil. They prayed for their good intentions, heads bowed, eyes closed. They prayed for their family and friends, their careers, the state of the world.

When the time came, the chaplain laid his hands upon Draco's head. He could feel the warm, leathery skin of the priest's hands, dry against his damp forehead; a somewhat comforting touch which took his focus away from the chilliness surrounding him. Draco took a shallow breath. There really wasn't much energy left to take a proper lungful anyway. Draco couldn't really concentrate on what was being said. The world around him was beginning to blur; the room, the chaplain, his family, everything. Whenever he opened his eyes, his vision would become hazy and unfocused. Perhaps he was delirious. Or perhaps…

He could barely make out what the priest was saying, as he struggled to hear his final prayer.

"_Lord, in your love and mercy, help __Draco Malfoy to remain with you in the grace of the Holy Spirit, through this holy anointing. May you free him from all transgressions, past and present, and raise him up to the eternal glory of your salvation. We ask this in the name of your son, Jesus Christ."_

A resounding 'Amen' filled the room. Draco struggled to keep his eyes open. The effort to stay awake, the energy to keep his drooping eyelids open, was killing him. The longer he stared up at the sterile white ceiling through flickering eyelids, the more he could feel his vision tunnelling.

Beep.

"Draco, do you repent for your sins, past and present, in order to join God in his eternal glory?"

Draco's breath came in short. His children watched in fear as he remained silent. The rise and fall of his chest indicated he was still alive. They were sure he could still speak but…

"Daddy…?" Scorpius' voice was quavering with uncertainty as he hesitantly reached forward to grasp his father's hand in his. Trenton and Weston bowed their heads in respect, one twin able to sense the pain of the other. The impending feeling that they would lose their father was so immense that it almost brought them to their knees. "He's not saying anything, Father."

Draco's eyes shot open. No. He could. He could speak for himself. Who was he to tell them he was completely invalid? He was merely weak. This fragile, cancer-ridden body of his would return to the earth, dust and ashes once he had departed. His body was weak, but his spirit was not. He could live on, if he chose to, if he had the strength.

And that was his strength, the decision that was his to make.

"No."

The twins glanced at each other wearily as Scorpius released his father's hand and took a step back. "Dad?"

Beep.

Draco cleared his throat, mentally trying to beat away the haze that had immersed him. Beep. "No," he rasped, struggling to sit up. Scorpius was pushing him back in an instant.

Beep.

"Dad, no! Stay down. Don't-" he choked on his words. "Don't."

Beep.

"No. No."

The chaplain's face was ashen as he watched the scene play out before him. Draco was struggling, as much as his spirit would have willed him to remain alive, his body was failing him. Hope could keep anyone holding on, but this man had lost hope long ago. This man was running on prayers, quite literally.

The beeping began to pick up speed in tandem with Draco's raspy breaths (so painful to hear, painful to watch), and then slowed down, his chest rising shakily as if the mere act of breathing took all his effort.

_Beep_.

Once, (_beep_)

twice, _(beep)_

a third time.

Flat-lined.

Blessed silence.

* * *

**For reference:** Gula (Gluttony); Luxuria (Lust); Avaritia (Greed); Acedia (Sloth); Invidia (Envy); Ira (Wrath) and Superbia (Pride)

So. I did say I would have some explaining to do. The whole concept behind this story was the _Seven Deadly Sins_ and it was written for an assignment when I was in high-school. You can imagine the commotion it stirred when my teachers read it (I went to a Catholic school), a few of them thought there was something wrong with me :'( and thought I needed counseling. Sneakily, I had actually written this story with Draco, Astoria and Harry in mind, plus or minus a few characters, but because I was so used to writing fanfiction then, the names had to be changed to Lucian (a name which had religious connotations, the devil and all), Lillian and Harrison respectively (creative, I know _). And the formatting is all out of whack! There's just some things you cannot achieve on FF.N :(

This was not my usual writing style. The point of the assignment was to attempt a writing style that was different from what we were used to (as I recall, this was written in 2009, back when I was publishing a good majority of my fanfiction). Fanfiction writing had a strange effect on my writing, in that sometimes you gear your writing towards pleasing a particular audience, getting reviews, etc. Often times, writing styles become superfluous, over-the-top and so highly descriptive of things that don't need such depth that it retracts from the smaller details and features of the story which deserve more attention. Writing this was one of the most difficult assignments I had been given.

We were given leeway with the content, and I wanted to write something (at the time) that meant something to me. Hopefully I was able to depict my (stupid) teenage angst, my frustrations with my family's super-religious outlook, my inability to write (_Acedia_ was actually in respect to the severe writer's block I faced between writing this assignment and writing fanfiction), and to some extent, my rather immature 'condition' that prevented me from writing _any_ story without slash in it. Yes, the homosexual themes were questioned as well (I attended a single-sex school). Addressing the issue with blackmailing Draco into marrying Astoria, I understand that doesn't occur in normal circumstances (it is, in fact, illegal). I can only ask that, as this is fanfiction, that suspension of disbelief can play a part. For Catholics, the final blessing is (from what I can remember) apparently meant to be a blessing for the departing, where they repent for their sins and as a last act of contrition, wipe their 'slates' clean. Draco refuses to atone for his sins, and as the religious concept implies, his soul would not be able to depart from purgatory.

Anyway, I believe I have dallied on far too long. I miss writing fanfiction, I really, _really_ do. Alas, time, as is usually the case, is as worse an enemy as writer's block. I apologise sincerely for my three-year absence. I don't know if I can ever get back into writing. There have been many times when I attempted to, and by the time I had sat down and poised myself to write, the inspiration was gone. I have also come to accept that, while writing is a talent, it can somewhat diminish when you're out of practice. All I know how to write these days are lab reports, case notes and scientific papers. Hopefully, after graduation (gulp) I may find the fire that made me write fanfiction all those years ago. Famous last words.


End file.
